Thursday, August 8, 2013

Writing this out can’t do justice to Baby’s facial
expressions and total Italian hand gestures. Even when Baby spoke her own
language, and it wasn’t close to English, communicating her thoughts and
feelings wasn’t a challenge.

“Why did we come here??!?!!”

“Because we need to pick up Baba from soccer.”

“But I don’t want
to.” (cross arms over chest)

“Ok, objection noted. However I’m not leaving here without
Baba.”

“But I want to go NOW.” (emphatically huff with arms)

“Ok. But I don’t. And since I’m the driver…….”

“Hmph. I want to go. Daddy can come get Baba.”

“Well that’s a silly waste of gas. You want to play outside
while we wait?” (child's eyes rolling while mother answers)

“NO. Because I don’t want to wait. And I don’t want to be
outside.”

(car door opens, grumpy child gets out anyway)

“Make sure you stay where I can see you.”

“I want to go down the hill.”

“Well, I can’t see you at the bottom of the hill so no.”

“But I WANT TO. Why can’t we go home RIGHT NOW?”

“Because I don’t want the police to arrest me for abandoning
Baba and I need to see you.”

“WHY DO YOU NEED TO SEE ME?” (insert wailing tears)

“Because mommy just got an Amber alert on my phone and I
don’t want the next one to be for you.”

“Hear that snoring? That’s X-Man. And Cinco’s sleeping too.
Not leaving them alone in the car.”

“Why not? Why can’t I go home?”

“Because Thomas Wolfe says so.”

“You’re not making any sense and you’re doing it on purpose!”

“Yep.”

“MOOOOOOOM!!!!” Full body exasperation.

“So Baba’s practice is almost done, I’m going to go get her
and you’re going to wait with the babies in the car.”

“BUT I DIDN’T GET TO PLAY!!!!’

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours because you wouldn’t
let me go down the hill.”

]“Uh huh. Well Mac had a high old time while you argued. So….yeah.”

“This isn’t fair!’ Strong sobbing now.

“You’re right. I am
way too nice to put up with this.”

“What does that even mean??? Why didn’t Daddy get Baba?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my mother’s helper is
named Jose Cuervo.

I perhaps tolerated more arguing than a good mother should,
but we were parked, in a crowded parking lot filled with other soccer parents
and it was hot. So the windows were down. Both in my car and the cars next to
me. And parents were in both of them. They were trying hard to look interested in
whatever they were doing and like they didn’t care that I was seriously contemplating
selling a child to the gypsies. Or they were just confirming that they were
indeed thrilled not to be driving a clown car’s worth of children.

The exchange wasn’t a total waste of time. As I returned to
the car, Baba in tow, a dad leaned his head out the window and said “That was
better than TV.”